


The Bet

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Kissing, Masturbation, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has brought herself into a bit of a predicament, and as a result, she has to face someone now who she doesn't want to meet. And even less to touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is supposed to be a rather short fic with only few chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.

Sansa was wringing her hands in despair and called herself the greatest oaf on earth. She was pacing up and down her chamber and felt listless.

She asked herself, if the season was playing a part in her misery. Due to the long winter nights people were bored in the Red Keep and came up with the weirdest ideas and pranks. Margaery's pregnancy and the sudden changes of her mood were doing nothing to make the situation easier.

 

It had all started when the queen had suggested a little game with bets. Sansa had been so careful, so guarded for so long that she still didn't understand what had gotten into her head on that occasion: some devil from the seven hells had suddenly ridden her, and she had said: “Well, I bet you don't dare to ask Joffrey, if you could name your future son Eddard.”

Margaery had pouted and bitten her lip.

“You're nasty, do you know that?”

But then, the queen had approached Joffrey and asked the question – though in such a mocking tone that the king had only cackled his malicious laughter and retorted she should rather have a kitten called “Fatflower” instead.

 

In the light of this episode Sansa guessed she deserved Margaery's revenge.

The queen had told her with impish delight: “And I bet you don't dare to give the Lord Hand a proper kiss.”

Sansa had paled in an instant.

Kissing Tywin Lannister!? Her father-in-law!? Sweet Mother, no!

The man had caused her family so much misery and had arranged the marriage between herself and Tyrion. Her husband had never consummated the marriage and had fallen victim to the first wave of winter fever, but Sansa had not forgotten who had initiated the wedding. So actually, she did fear cold-blooded, ruthless Lord Tywin (and who didn't?), but revulsion was just as important a deterrent.

 

The problem was that the queen expected her now to at least try her fortune – and to fail, likely.

Sansa's heart was in her throat. How could she possibly get a grip on herself? And if she did – how should she proceed?

 

In the end, she decided for a very straightforward strategy: she'd simply approach the Lord Hand and tell him what the matter was. Of course, he'd get very angry with her and call her to the carpet – but then again, it would at least be over. She didn't want to play any games with Tywin Lannister; that would only entail very unhealthy consequences for her.

 

When Sansa had reached this point in her line of reasoning she breathed in and out deeply a few times. Her knees felt like jelly, but she could muster the determination to open her chamber door.

 

The sentry outside looked at her.

 

“I need to meet the Lord Hand,” Sansa announced.

Her voice was brittle, but the man simply accepted her information indifferently and followed her to the Tower of the Hand. Lord Tywin was likely to be found in his solar at this time of the day. Sansa felt nothing but turmoil on the inside, but her time at court had taught her how to look unmoved.

 

Finally, she arrived at the dreaded door that stood between her and the Old Lion. She didn't want to open it. Wanted to sneak back to her room like the little girl she had once been. Yet, she wasn't that girl any more. Sansa tucked her feelings away and emptied her mind, thus preparing herself for the inevitable.

 

After a moment's hesitation, she knocked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this part is so short. At least there's enough text for a cliffhanger. *grin*

“Come in!” Lord Tywin's voice resounded on the inside.

For a second, Sansa's self-control wavered and her heart sank into her boots – well, her slippers, rather. But then, she squared her shoulders and pushed down the door handle.

 

As she had predicted, the Lord Lannister was positioned behind his desk, a big heap of scrolls and papers in front of him. He rose and stood, clasping his hands behind his rigid back, when she entered. An obeisant, hasty servant closed the door and left the two alone.

 

“Lord Hand,” Sansa greeted the elderly man with an adequate little curtsy that behoved her status as his daughter-in-law: she was below him, but still of high rank, due to her former link to Tyrion that had made her a member of the Lannister family.

 

“Lady Sansa. What do you want?”

 

The Old Lion was always direct – thus lacking the ornamental language many people used at court, especially when it came to women. No, he was straight to the point and didn't blunder his words or mess about his time. In a way, this was better than all the usual false pretences she had grown accustomed to.

 

Sansa breathed in and told herself Lord Tywin would be mad at her – but that would be about it. After all, he wasn't sadistic like Joffrey. His punishments were severe, but he didn't torture people for his personal enjoyment. Probably because he didn't know what enjoyment was. Anyway.

 

She started bravely, but then faltered: “My Lord, I'm sorry to interrupt you in your important tasks. It's just... I've got a problem and... Gods, I'm so stupid!”

“So says my daughter. – Well. What do I have to do with your trouble?”

Sansa started to feel tiny under Lord Tywin's scrutinizing, green-golden gaze.

“I've made a mistake, and perhaps you'd be willing to help me, Lord Hand.”

“If you've made a mistake I hope you'll learn from it, so you won't do it again. I expect you not to besmirch the Lannister name. And now, I want to know what is going on. I'm losing my patience.”

 

Sansa nodded, but felt desperate. She should have never come here.

“A bet has been made.”

“And you've lost it, and now you need money. That can be mended, but you mustn't do it again. I hope it isn't too much.”

“No! No, my lord, that's not the point. It's that you're... a part of the bet.”

Lord Tywin blinked.

“What. Do. You. Mean?”

Sansa was close to losing control over her bladder.

She sputtered: “It's, well... the queen said I wouldn't dare to give you a proper kiss.”

 

The following silence was deafening.


	3. Chapter 3

Lord Tywin never took his feline eyes off her when he sat down on his desk chair after having stared her down for what had felt like an eternity. He was looking up at her now, but it didn't lessen the intimidation Sansa was feeling.

 

“The queen,” Lord Lannister finally began in a flat voice. “You're saying Queen Margaery has basically tasked you to kiss me.”

 

Sansa's cheeks flushed scarlet in shame. She cast down her eyes.

 

“Yes, Lord Hand,” she breathed.

 

The Old Lion's gaze was suddenly inquiring. Sceptical.

 

“Why are you here, Lady Sansa? Let us hypothesize I complied to the implications of this bet. You must know that I'd forbid you to tell anyone of any possible kiss. Which means that there is no way you can officially win your fatuitous little game. So what brought you actually to me?”

 

Sansa swallowed hard.

“I know,” she uttered. “I'd like to be able to say I've tried... and I want to be able to tell myself that I've done what I could.”

Lord Lannister snorted: “Honour. It runs in your northern blood. Trying to do the right thing, and ruining everything along the way. Like your late father.”

 

Sansa's reflexes from court kicked in.

“My father was a traitor.”

Lord Tywin looked at her and waved his hand.

“Parroting what other people say. You're indeed as stupid as Cersei says.”

His tone wasn't even derisive. Just matter-of-fact. Stating what seemed obvious to him.

 

Suddenly, Sansa became angry – as angry as she had been on the battlements that one day when Joffrey had shown her her father's severed head. She had been about to lose control then, and only Sandor Clegane's presence of mind had saved her (and the king, unfortunately).

 

Joffrey's former sworn shield had long disappeared, and today nobody was there to influence her. To save her downfall, if you want to understand it like that.

 

She raised here eyes to face Lord Tywin and stated coldly: “You say these words are idiocy. I say they've been a life insurance for me for a long time.”

Lord Lannister looked back, cocked his head, becoming strangely thoughtful, and pressed his fingertips together.

“Is that so?”

“I've got enough scars on my back to prove it.”

 

The next moment, Sansa felt sick and wanted nothing more than to take back what she had just admitted.

Sweet Mother, what was she talking about!? Her words could be interpreted as high treason!

She shrank like a frightened turtle.

 

Strangely enough, Lord Tywin looked less angry now than he had done after her confession about the bet. He seemed to be mulling things over in his mind.

 

After a moment, however, his attention snapped back to her.

“We should return to the topic at hand. This stupid game of yours. Do you think I'd let you off so easily?”

Sansa was crestfallen.

“I guess... no...”

Lord Tywin nodded.

“That guess is correct. So you've at least got some basic intelligence. Well. You wanted to prove to yourself you can do it. Go ahead then.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa's eyes widened.

Lord Tywin Lannister hadn't really just given his consent for a kiss, had he?

But there he was sitting, looking up at her with unmoving features and waiting silently for her next move. He had denied her a denial. A denial she had she had expected. Simple as that. No, he most certainly didn't let her off easily.

 

Welll... Sansa could leave him now, of course. Like a dog with its tail between the legs. Or rather a wolf than a dog, but it wouldn't matter with regard to the result. She'd feel humiliated yet again.

 

For the first time, Sansa looked at Lord Tywin's mouth. His lips were thinner than Joffrey's. Not wormy like his grandson's.

 

This was likely the decisive aspect for Sansa.

Yes, she was horribly tense, but she had brought herself into this situation, and now, she'd live with the consequences. Lord Tywin was right – in that respect, she was like her father. Wanted to be like her father.

 

Slowly, she approached the man who was sitting in front of her some more. It was easy to reach his face in this position. Being tall herself, she'd even have to bow down.

All the while, Lord Tywin was holding her gaze. A non-verbal challenge.

 

There was another moment of despondence for Sansa when she was so close that she could go through with the kiss.

For a few seconds, she hovered over Lord Tywin. He was watching her inner struggles, and somehow, Sansa was suddenly under the impression that this situation wasn't just a punishment for her stupidity... that instead, it was just as much some sort of test, even if she didn't know what it was about.

 

And there was another detail – a surprising one.

“He may be quite an old man... but he doesn't smell old,” she had to admit.

That Lord Tywin was cleanly, even in comparison to quite a few other noblemen and knights, was obvious, but she had still thought that she'd be repelled in a moment of closeness; she had been disgusted by King Robert; and Lord Baelish's minty scent – alongside with his behaviour – had made her a little queasy.

 

There was no such instinctive reaction with reference to Lord Tywin.

Sansa swallowed, and something started to flutter deep inside of her.

It was so weird. Lord Lannister was older than many men at court, especially after the years of war when countless others had died. And yet... in his own serious way, he looked better than lots of younger men from a merely physical point of view. He had crowfeet around his eyes and some wrinkles, but he was still lean and surprisingly fit.

Sansa's thoughts flitted to late King Robert again. To Ser Dontos. To Ser Meryn and Ser Balon from the Kingsguard and to some others. If she was honest Lord Tywin was more acceptable than them, age notwithstanding.

 

“What is it now? Do it and abscond or let the matter drop and abscond.”

Sansa flinched.

Lord Tywin was getting impatient again.

She felt panic surge in her heart... and in a practically automatic counter-reaction she bowed down swiftly, put her lips onto his for the briefest moment, and straightened up again before the sensual information of the contact had really seeped into her brain.

 

Her heart was booming against her ribcage.

She had done it! Sansa couldn't believe herself.

And in retrospect she could only remember about Lord Tywin's mouth that it had been warm and human – nothing more specific.

 

A feeling of accomplishment started to blossom within her...

… but it was short-lived.

 

“What was that?” Lord Tywin inquired in his even, piercing voice.

Sansa was flustered and answered accordingly: “Why... a kiss.”

Lord Lannister snorted: “That wasn't a kiss. Even less a proper one as demanded by the queen. It was nothing more than a tiny peck. I thought you knew the difference, even if my incompetent deceased gargoyle of a son never managed to bed you. No, the way you did it you haven't won your bet. Try again and try better – or leave; I've got more to do than to than to watch your whims and to dance after your tune.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa couldn't believe what she was hearing – in more than one way. That she was allegedly incapable of kissing was an insult that was directed at her, but she was accustomed to Joffrey's nasty comments, so it wasn't even what disturbed her most.

 

Instead, she inquired: “How can you talk about Tyrion like that? How can you call him an “incompetent gargoyle”?”

Lord Tywin was clearly annoyed and shot back: “I'm just saying what everyone's thinking.”

Sansa was incredulous.

“He wasn't incompetent! He was intelligent! And you were his father!”

Lord Lannister started to fume.

“He WAS incompetent, Lady Sansa. His task was to put a child into you belly. Instead, he rather chose to go on bedding his whores and ridiculing the Lannister name. How you can defend him is a mystery to me. And do you know what that intelligent head of his did? Tyrion killed Joanna. My wife.”

 

Sansa was even more shocked now.

“But... your wife died in the birthing process! Tyrion was an innocent, newborn baby! It wasn't his intention!”

 

Suddenly, Lord Tywin, stood up and towered above her like a shadow of doom.

Frightened, Sansa retreated, but Lord Lannister followed her, and a moment later, she felt cold stone in her back. Positioning his arms left and right from her head, the king's Hand pinned her against the wall and stared her down with furious looks that could even cause the Warrior's soul to freeze.

 

Lord Tywin spat: “Not his intention! Intentions aren't what counts in this world. Only results do. Your father intended to make you queen – the result was the downfall of your family. My grandson intended to send your father to the Wall – the result was Eddard Stark's head on a spear. Your brother intended to rule as King of the North – the result was a bloody war; so many from the smallfolk died, as well as your brother and mother. What a great, humane achievement! And Tyrion? Tyrion maybe didn't want to kill his mother, but he did, and that's all that counts. Intentions and results – do you see the difference?”

 

Sansa felt incredibly hurt by the Old Lion's words.

It would have been nice to hurl back at him: “Your grandson never intended to allow my father to wear the Black!”

However, her lady's behaviour as well as her instinct of self-preservation didn't allow for this answer.

Still, she couldn't stay completely silent. Sansa felt the incredible need to say something, preferably something meaningful.

 

Then, a strange thought occurred to her.

Before, she wouldn't have been able to understand, because she would have been too young; she would have just been frightened, humiliated and full of hatred, deep down. But things had started to change – she had seen too many ugly things, had met too many disgusting people, experienced too many nasty situations; and she was older now.

 

Even though it felt like pushing yourself into a dagger she looked up into those horribly intimidating green-golden eyes.

 

In a surprisingly soft voice she replied: “Yes, I can see the difference, Lord Hand. I came here with the intention to win a bet – and the result is that I'm getting berated by a bitter man who is just as much of an empty shell after having been deprived of a beloved person as me.”

 

Lord Tywin glared at Sansa, breathing heavily. He wasn't accustomed to defiant reactions – and he was even less so with regard to candour.

Sansa asked herself whether she had gone too far. Yes, she likely had. Still – those words had been inevitable from her side.

 

Lord Lannister bowed down, and the tips of their noses nearly touched.

He hissed: “What do you – of all people – know about loving a spouse?”

Sansa knew she had crossed a line. Perhaps, she should fall to her knees, beg and cringe, like she had already done so often in front of Joffrey... only this time, she was beyond that. And she knew she wouldn't lie to this man.

“I've never experienced this kind of love myself, you're right, Lord Hand. I know what my parents had, though I guess watching their love from the outside isn't the same.”

Lord Tywin was still gazing at her.

His answer was only a harsh whisper: “No. It isn't the same.”

And then, he bowed some more and put his mouth onto hers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for T. not wearing an undershirt in winter. For... reasons. ;-P

“Whatonearthohgods...”

Within an instant, Sansa's thoughts were reduced to fragments.

 

Had Lord Tywin been forceful – she would have balked, would have ducked under his harms and would have fled as fast as she would have been able to in her heavy winter dress and soft slippers. However, the Hand wasn't the king. Unlike Joffrey, most of the time he didn't need any physical brutality to make people do what he wanted them to do.

 

Lord Tywin's nostrils were flaring and his lips quivering from hardly controlled anger (or was it something else – or a mix of fury and something else?). The only thing he allowed himself to do was to shift his position slightly now and then, and to reduce the contact... only to intensify it again just a moment later.

 

Sansa's mind started to swim. When Joffrey had entered her life like the harshest of all winters and had had her father incarcerated – and later murdered – her soul and body had gone into hibernation. And ever since the Hound had left her after the Battle of the Blackwater she had barely felt anything any more.

Especially her maturing femininity had been dulled to an extent that nothing and nobody had appealed to her; least of all her deceased husband, even if they had reached an unstable sort of agreement for as long as he had been alive.

Now, she wasn't prepared for the reactions and feelings that were suddenly igniting within her like wildfire: her already nervous heartbeat increased even more, her breasts started to become oddly sensitive, and there was a pulsating feeling in her most private parts.

It was frightening.

 

“Need to get... away...”

An idea that flitted through her head and was gone the next instant.

Instead, her hands moved on instinct and suddenly landed on Lord Tywin's hips.

The difference of intention and result – it was a brand new lesson, and she could only guess that it wasn't only one for her, but for him as well.

He tensed, and she could feel a shudder run through his body. She reacted the same way.

Lord Lannister uttered a tiny hissing sound against her mouth... and then started to nibble on her lips with his own ones.

Only after the sound had already died down did Sansa understand that she had uttered a whimper.

 

Suddenly, a new, outrageous sensation was added to the already wild mix: Lord Tywin flicked the tip of his tongue quickly against her mouth. Sansa gasped... and he seized the opportunity shamelessly and let his tongue slip into her mouth.

“Nhhhh!” Sansa uttered in shock when his tongue slid against hers.

A part of her wanted to tear away from him, the one that was the naïve maid – but a much bigger part was glued to the spot and to the mouth that was challenging her.

Somewhere in her core, there was the notion that she should be disgusted by Lord Lannister's presence, his touch, his taste... but her body didn't care one whit. It only felt the utter need to sprout like a seed on the first day of spring.

 

Meanwhile, Lord Tywin's ire had changed into something different, and no mistake. He was hungry. Greedy for what she had to offer. In that way, he was still a true Lion.

His tongue was getting curious and explored her thoroughly, taking in all the details about the inside of her mouth. Yes, a man like Lord Lannister cared about details so as not to make any mistake and to rather gain the most from any given situation.

 

Breathing was becoming difficult, and Sansa felt fuzzy and dizzy. Her awakening passionate instincts were finally taking over completely, and suddenly, here hands were pulling his tunic out of his breeches, dived under the fabric and roamed the warm skin of his back. For a few heartbeats, it was glory. Bliss. And Sansa reveled in it, having completely forgotten who she was, or he, or where they were. What they were doing was the only thing that counted.

 

Why, oh why could these moments never last?


	7. Chapter 7

Lord Tywin tore away from her. Simple as that. From one moment to the next.

The absence of his touch and of his incredible, overwhelming presence were acute and painful for Sansa.

 

Shocked, she looked up at Lord Lannister, who had stepped back a little.

 

His eyes were unnaturally wide, his pupils dilated. He was breathing heavily, his lips were darker and even a little swollen, the sideburns uncharacteristically wispy. He even had a noticeable bulge in his breeches. In short: he looked like a man who had just been thoroughly kissed.

 

And for an instant, Tywin Lannister's essence was laid bare and visible: strength, defiance, passionate determination; but also emotional pain that had festered inside of him for decades and that had poisoned him... and there were also fragments of a more loving streak – shards that had lain scattered for decades as well and that had made him the bitter man everyone knew these days.

 

After a heartbeat, however, the old mask of controlled dominance slipped back into place.

The Old Lion straightened and simply stated: “That was a predator's kiss.”

Or perhaps it was a predators' kiss; Sansa didn't know. She was too afflicted to be able to understand.

 

“Why has he retreated?”

That was all she could think for the time being.

 

“My lord...?” she uttered faintly.

“You've won your bet now, Lady Sansa. There's nothing more to say. Go. AT ONCE.”

Had Lord Tywin driven a peg right into her heart – it could not have hurt more than these words.

 

Sansa's shoulders slumped.

Her mind screamed: “Why is he doing this? Why is he sending me away? Why NOW?”

But she also felt that it was no use to discuss these questions with Lord Tywin, and that she shouldn't linger in the room.

 

She simply turned and sneaked to the door. When she was there the corners of her eyes were already filling with tears.

With a breaking voice, she just managed to croak: “Goodbye, Lord Hand.”

“Lady Sansa,” was the clipped response.

 

Outside in the corridor the sentry was awaiting her. The fact that a person left Lord Tywin's solar weeping didn't raise any sceptical reactions.

Sansa couldn't contain her feelings, unlike usually: tears were streaming down her face in public.

At first, it was because of the painful rejection.

Soon, this reason for her tears was replaced by another one. Shame.

She had kissed an enemy. Had kissed him willingly, passionately, had desired him, had wanted more. No use to belie herself.

 

The Lannisters had caused her family so much sorrow and grief, and Lord Tywin had had a substantial share in it. Gods, amongst so many other things even her pathetic marriage with Tyrion had been his making! And yet, she had fallen on his neck like a loose woman from Flea Bottom!

Sansa swallowed and wiped her tears away, but more started to stream down her cheek.

 

She though: “They first called my father a traitor, then my brother – but I'm the real traitor in the family!”

The guilty conscience and the self-loathing had been part of her ever since her father's execution, but now, they reached a new level.

 

When Sansa arrived at her chamber she stormed in and sobbed into the cushion like mad. Her guts felt raw. She cried and cried until she fell asleep from exhaustion.

 

Upon waking up, her heartache returned promptly, but sleep had also helped her head to recover from the intense experience and to start functioning more or less properly again.

It was then that a completely new idea crossed her mind, and it led to a deeper understanding of what had happened: Lord Tywin had initiated the kiss to teach her a lesson, but things had gotten out of control, and suddenly, he had been kissing her the way he would have done his deceased wife. That had been too much for him, and when she had started to caress him it had been the last straw that had broken his back. He hadn't known how to handle the sensual perceptions, probably even less than herself, inexperienced maid that she was. Instantaneous escape and sending her away had been a means of self-preservation for him.

 

Sansa shook her head in sadness. Understanding the kissing debacle was all good and nice – but it didn't reduce her sorrow. Not one tiny little bit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I'm not really going into the details, but this is nevertheless getting rather close to "E".

Sansa was called to join Queen Margaery's ladies, as it could be expected. In spite of feeling ill Sansa knew she had to obey and did what she could to look the part.

 

“Well, my dear Lady Sansa! How did our little bet go?” the queen chittered jovially and patted her hand.

Sansa blushed and answered: “I... I went to the Lord Hand's solar. I fear he was... most indignant when he... found out about my intention. And he taught me... about the differences between intentions and results.”  
It wasn't even a lie.

Margaery let her laughter chime in the room, and the other ladies giggled.

“Oh, Lady Sansa, from what you're saying I can understand why you're so, shall I say, pallid today. But you were indeed very brave to go and to confront Lord Lannister to begin with.”

There was some mild applause.

 

Sansa was relieved when she was allowed to retreat a little and to play with Margaery's first-born, Princess Olenna. The girl was only a year and a half old, but she already had her mother's charms. Which was decidedly better than having taken after Joffrey. Hopefully, the same would be true for the second, the unborn child – especially if it was a boy.

 

While Sansa was fooling about with Olenna her thoughts returned to the previous day. To Lord Tywin.

She was still so ashamed of what she had done. At the same time, her body kept telling her completely different things. A few – still so very fresh – memories of his mouth, his scent, his taste, his skin... and she was tingling all over again.

Sansa chided herself for being so wanton, but to no avail. In the afternoon, she went to the sept, because the Godswood was too snowed-in to go there. She prayed endlessly to the Seven for guidance. Again to no avail. The Gods had never listened to her – why should they start to do so now?

 

When Sansa returned to her room much later it got even worse. She had a bath, scrubbed herself clean like mad and finally slipped between the cool sheets of her bed, but she couldn't find any sleep. Instead, her thoughts returned to the only time she had seen her late husband Tyrion naked. It had been the only time he had ever been anywhere near to touching her.

 

Her imagination started to run wild. All of a sudden, she tried to envision what Lord Tywin probably looked like naked. She even wondered, if his body hair was more grey or golden.

“Gods! I've got to stop this!” she berated herself again, but it was as futile as all the other attempts.

Quite the contrary.

Sansa's body had become so sensitive by then that at some point, she started to touch herself. It was horrible. Her septa had always taught her that such things were dirty and sinful, and the pangs of her bad conscience made it impossible to enjoy what she was doing. So she stopped.

 

The problem was that her body was becoming feverish from pent-up need. How Sansa managed to fall asleep at some point was a mystery... and her slumber brought her no relief: she dreamed of Lord Tywin putting his hands where hers had been.

With a jolt, she came awake, panting and sweating, and was so desperate that she continued with what she had tried to stop, until her body convulsed, and she uttered a moan.

Finally, she felt a bit better from a physical point of view, but a new wave of embarrassment washed over her as well.

 

“Gods!” she thought, feeling utterly miserable. “I must never be alone with Lord Tywin again! I despise him for what he has done, I fear him, I've always thought to be a proper lady, he's old and I don't even know how intimacies between men and women really work – and yet, if we were left alone in a room I'd try to eat him alive. What on earth is wrong with me?”


	9. Chapter 9

The next day, Margaery accompanied her husband when he was holding court – and this was good, because she was able to play him like a fiddle. She often managed to manipulate him into not being as sadistic as he would have been otherwise. Especially now with her pregnancy she could always tell him that this would upset her and the unborn child too much; and since Joffrey was greedy for an heir, a son, a proof that he was a fertile man, he was willing to restrain himself.

But what would happen to Margaery's status, if she birthed another girl, or even lost the baby, was another matter. So the whole kingdom was praying for a healthy son.

 

The day was especially frosty, but the throne room was packed with people so that it wasn't too cold. Of course, under the given circumstances Sansa had to be present as well, much as she loathed it.

Since Joffrey's marriage she hadn't been tortured publicly any more, Margaery had distracted him and Tyrion had tried to shield her off from the king's brutal treatment, too. For that she had come to respect her husband, though he had been a Lannister. No more, no less.

 

Sansa sighed. She kept herself well in the background, and fortunately people ignored her. She was only a traitor's daughter and the Imp's widow... and thus not an interesting character any longer.

Sansa was furthering this impression by wearing adequate, but dull dresses, with gloomy colours that only supported the impression she was still “mourning” for her husband – even if everyone knew she didn't really do that.

Well, she had prayed for Tyrion when he had passed away, and she had been sincere about it. And unlike Lord Tywin Sansa had gone through with the vigil in the sept. She also visited the grave regularly, if mostly because it was a quiet place; it had been no wonder that Tyrion had been buried in the capital – his father had not wanted him to be laid to rest under Casterly Rock.

 

Suddenly, Sansa's thoughts were dragged back to the throne room, because she was starting to overhear two courtiers gossip in front of her: a sturdy elder knight of little importance and an unknown young, arrogant Tyrell bannerman.

The latter began: “It's now the second day that the Hand is absent. Do you think he's ill?”

The knight weighed his head thoughtfully.

“Half dead, if you ask me. The Old Lion wouldn't stay away from court, if he simply had a flu or something like that. The servants say he isn't eating any more. The winter fever, perhaps?”

“Could be. I mean – what else could fell a man like him? It should be outlawed to be as healthy at his age as he was until a few days ago.”

“What do you think? Who could be the next Hand after Lord Lannister?”

The Tyrell man scratched his beard.

“Uuh, difficult to say. The Queen Mother is propelling Ser Osmund Kettleblack – and we all know for what reason. Now that the Kingslayer has followed his big warrior whore to Braavos she needs a replacement. But honestly, I keep thinking that Ser Loras will and must be the next Hand.”

 

Sansa's heart started to beat wildly.

Lord Tywin was fatally ill? Gods!

 

Later that day, she went to the sept again, but she didn't know what to pray for. And she found she had also lost her appetite and couldn't even eat the lemon cakes that were served for dessert. Besides, her sleep was troubled. Old nightmares kept haunting her, like they did so often; only this time waking up brought no relief.

 

The next morning, she was in a flurry to wash and to dress and to reach the throne room like she had never done ever since her father had been imprisoned. She simply needed to know the latest news!


	10. Chapter 10

Of the few people who were already there nobody was talking about Lord Tywin. Sansa took this as a good sign and wished once again she had a friend to confer with, but as it was, she always got any piece of news late in contrast to the others in the keep.

More courtiers were gathering, Cersei appeared as well as Lord Mace Tyrell, who had arrived from Highgarden yet again to support his pregnant daughter, and Ser Osmund Kettleblack, who was off duty, trailed after them. Finally, Joffrey and Margaery entered and walked towards the throne.

 

Sansa's heart sank. No Lord Hand.

At once, she berated herself for feeling this way – just like she had been doing so often these days.

 

Suddenly, the big doors, which had been in the process of closing, swung open again...

… and Lord Tywin strutted into the hall in all his rigid Lion glory.

Though maybe he looked a bit pale, the man seemed fit enough otherwise. He was wearing one of his elegant ceremonial frock coats, and the chain of office was dangling visibly around his neck. This entrance made clear that he was still absolutely to be reckoned with.

 

At once, there was the weirdest fluttering feeling in her belly when Sansa looked at Lord Tywin.

His cold gaze was sweeping the crowd casually.

When their eyes met a short, non-committal blink of his eyes was the only sign Lord Lannister had seen Sansa at all. Next, he looked straight ahead, to the throne, and walked on as if nothing had happened.

 

Well, it was clear that Lord Tywin couldn't and wouldn't show any signs of familiarity – and yet, Sansa couldn't help but feel disappointed. She was asking herself what he was thinking about the kiss now. Had he brushed it off his mind easily?

 

While the king was holding court Sansa was doing her very best – as usual – in order not to attract any unwanted attention; however, she did attempt to follow the proceedings. The problem was that her eyes and mind kept drifting towards the Lord Hand next to the king. To Lord Tywin's face. To his mouth.

It was only good that the two were so close together that nobody noticed she wasn't watching Joffrey with rapt attention. Otherwise, she would have died in shame.

 

At the end of the procedure, Sansa was one of the first to leave the throne room. That wasn't anything new either, and she didn't want to come across the Old Lion and to be forced to pretend she didn't care about him. After all, she had always been such a bad liar that everybody would surely notice at once that something about her was weird.

 

So she visited Tyrion's grave, prayed at the sept, got herself a book about dragons her deceased husband had liked, and which she had come to appreciate, too, and thought she'd pass the rest of the day in silence.

 

It was not meant to be.

 

Suddenly, there was a knock on the chamber door.

Sansa's heartbeat accelerated, and she feared that at last, Joffrey had remembered her and wanted to torment her again.

 

Nevertheless, she opened the door quickly.

There was a servant outside, a young, golden-haired squire with his first moustache.

“Lady Sansa,” he started at once, clearly impatient and eager to get away from her again, “Lord Tywin sends you his invitation to dine with the Lannister family. You're supposed to be in the Hand's dining room at eight o'clock.”

 

Sansa's eyes widened in shock, but the next moment, she tried to get a grip on herself and not to show her feelings.

“Thank you,” she simply said.

The servant nodded, turned on his heels and hurried away.

 

As soon as Sansa had closed the door she sank to the ground and cowered there for a while.

Dinner with the Lannister family!

That meant herself, Lord Tywin and Cersei, perhaps also Tommen and Ser Lancel.

In that way, she wouldn't be alone with the Old Lion, sure, but to be exposed to Cersei all evening would be highly upsetting, and she didn't have any warm feelings for Ser Lancel either. Tommen would be the only acceptable companion. If he was there.

 

“Gods, how shall I be able to eat a single bite?” Sansa asked herself desperately and started to consider agitatedly which dress she should wear – dreading the things that lay ahead of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, the last 2 chapters ahead now. Lannister dinner and some kind of... epilogue. Somehow the fic got a little longer than I had planned, but well... such is life. :-)


	11. Chapter 11

The whole family dinner thing turned out to be as horrible for Sansa as she had feared. When she had arrived at the dinner room in a blue dress that reminded her of the one she had once gotten from her mother Cersei and Ser Lancel were already there. No Tommen. The only one who could have been a ray of light. Surely, Cersei had arranged this on purpose.

 

“Lady Sansa.”

Lord Tywin's flat voice was like a kick in the belly for her. His feline eyes pierced her, but didn't give away what was going on inside of him.

She inclined her head in a polite greeting.

“Lord Hand.”

Sansa sounded tense and she knew it, but as long as Cersei and Ser Lancel didn't suspect the reason it hardly mattered.

 

“Honestly, father, I really can't understand how this Stark girl can be part of a family dinner.”

Cersei looked at her deridingly, as if she were still the naïve child she had been upon her arrival in the capital.

Lord Tywin simply answered: “Tyrion was my son, whether I liked it or not. Lady Sansa was his wife and has thus become a part of the family, whether YOU like it or not.”

Cersei pouted, and Sansa knew the queen mother would make her pay for this later on.

 

They sat down, and the first course was served. Asparagus soup.

Cersei thought that this was perfect with white wine. Afterwards, they had duck roast with chestnuts in red wine and cream sauce. Cersei complained that her Arbor gold didn't fit there.

Sansa noticed that Ser Lancel was the only one who ate with a good appetite. He had already eaten two bowls of soup and was yet signalling a servant to put some more duck onto his plate.

Cersei commented with a sneer: “If the appetite was the decisive point about it the pregnant person amongst us would be Lancel.”

Sansa understood the hidden insult directed at her well enough, but pretended she didn't.

“What's wrong!?” Lancel shot back. “The cook knows his job, and you will certainly appreciate I appreciate your cook, uncle.”

He looked at Lord Lannister, who was eating rather little.

The Old Lion replied: “What counts is that there's no poison in the food. And that it reflects the family's wealth. But I accept the compliment for the dishes.”

He was looking at Sansa now, and she said dutifully: “It's all very tasty. Thank you for the invitation.”

Cersei cut in, looking at her father: “Well, everything must be delicious for her as they don't have such refined food in the north.”

“Do you have a specialty in the north, Lady Sansa?” Ser Lancel asked in a more jovial attempt to ease up the tense mood at table.

“Lemon cakes,” Sansa offered in a monosyllabic way.

She didn't want to join the conversation with any small talk of her own.

 

Meanwhile, Cersei changed the topic and prattled on about Casterly Rock. There had been a raven from Lancel's father Kevan. Soon, the three born Lannisters were engaged in aspects of the Castle and the Westerlands in general. Not knowing these places, Sansa could contribute nothing to their talk, and that was exactly what Cersei had intended by addressing the Rock.

However, Sansa wasn't overly sad. She was too depressed about the whole conversation. Because of them only being four people she was sitting almost next to Lord Tywin, and his presence was gnawing on her already frayed nerves. Watching him eat with his elegant hands and observing his measured bites was nothing short of torture. It was unfair that she was reacting to him in such a strong, physical way, but there she was and knew no solution to the problem.

 

After a while, the dessert was served: plums in a spiced sauce. Cersei had a sherry with her portion. Over dinner, she had already drunk two or three glasses of wine, but she was accustomed to it and still nearly sober on the outside.

 

Finally, their dinner was over, and Sansa allowed herself to relax a little when they all rose to part.

Suddenly, Lord Tywin looked at her and spoke up: “Cersei, Lancel, we'll meet tomorrow at court. Good night then. Lady Sansa, your presence will be needed her a little longer. We must talk about your future.”

At once, an evil grin spread on Cersei's face.

Sansa needed a second until she understood the implications of Lord Tywin's words – and when she did she turned milk white.

 

As soon as Cersei and Lancel had left Sansa spun around and gasped: “Do you mean you intend to sell me into marriage again?”

Lord Tywin's eyes were cold.

“Lady Sansa, you hold the key to the north. To Winterfell. And you don't have any heirs yet. Of course, you must marry again. The sooner, the better.”

There was a little click in Sansa's brain.

“Lancel.”

“Unfortunately, Tyrion is dead, Cersei is a woman, and Jaime is lost for House Lannister. My brother's son is the next best option.”

Sansa gaped and stammered: “He can't even conquer...”

She stopped, flushing bright red.

“What can't he conquer, Lady Sansa?”

Lord Tywin's voice was dangerously mild.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

But then, Sansa plucked up the necessary courage and murmured: “He can't even... conquer a dunghill, that's what my sister used to say when she had some mock battles with Theon Greyjoy as a child.”

 

Lord Tywin rubbed his chin. The explosion Sansa had feared didn't come, for whatever reason.

She looked up at him then. Gods, he was behaving in such a mean way, and they were standing entirely too close!

 

Her voice was small and sad, but also very clear when she continued: “Lord Hand, I won't marry Ser Lancel. I can't. I've been treated like a pawn ever since I left Winterfell. And I'm sorry to say it, but there are rumours. About him. And your daughter. Don't glower at me like that, please – I'm not the origin of that gossip. Actually, I'm always the last one who hears such things.”

 

Lord Tywin was angry now, that much Sansa could see.

Suddenly, his hand crashed on the table.

“These stupid...! Damn! – Argh. So be it. We'll find someone else for you.”

 

Sansa felt heartbroken, and that caused her to say things she would have not said around other people in the Red Keep these days – even if she still lacked the defiant passion Arya would have surely shown in her place.

“Lord Tywin, who else should it be? A lesser Lannister? Or even one of your bannermen, like Ser Marbrand? Would that fit into your family concept?”

 

The Old Lion was nothing less than impaling her with his furious glare now.

“Is that a proposition, Lady Sansa?”

“WHAT?”

“Is what you're saying an offer of marriage?”

Sansa stopped dead.

“I... I haven't thought this through. Lord Hand,” she stammered.

A sneer.

“Ah. You haven't thought it through. You mean – like that stupid bet of yours?”

 

There was utter pandemonium in Sansa's head.

After a moment she tried to express herself, even though her thoughts were spinning and her heart was beating like mad: “I'm too surprised by this topic to think straight. All I can say is: another arranged marriage... would mean I'd perish. Where would your key to the north and the Lannister heirs be then? Worse than that: until a few days ago my remarriage wasn't a topic for you. You're trying to send me away now because of that kiss. A kiss that meant something for me, even if I would have preferred it otherwise. And now, I won't remarry, just because a man who's normally strong and unflinching suddenly behaves like a headless chicken after a kiss, and because he's afraid of his own feel...”

The Lion pounced.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now - another POV for the finale.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~ ~#~#~#~#~#~#~ ~#~#~#~#~#~#~

 

Damon was standing in the corridor and waiting for the Lord Hand and Lady Sansa to finish the family meeting. The queen mother and Ser Lancel had already left, and he expected Tyrion Lannister's widow to emerge from the dining room soon enough. After all, nobody stayed with Lord Tywin any longer than absolutely necessary.

 

He'd give orders to a lower servant then to clean the dining room, and he himself would accompany the Hand to his solar, to his private chambers, or he'd carry out any other order he was given. Damon had been one of Lord Tywin's personal servants for many years now. His master had never established a personal relationship with his servant, true enough, he wasn't that kind of man, but the position was good, the payment as well, and you didn't get punished as long as you were effective and didn't fret too much about the lord's coldness.

It had been Damon who had discovered the secret passage that led to the solar upon their first arrival in King's Landing, and over the last few years, it had been Damon who had arranged some occasional discrete meetings between his master and one of Chataya's women. The fact that Damon had been chosen to be on duty this evening pointed to the fact that the lord would like to see his personal needs reduced later on.

 

“Hopefully, it won't get too late, like it does so often,” Damon mused. “Lord Tywin has got a hellish timetable. Wondering if Masha will be still awake for a quick tumble. That would be sweet.”

Damon knew that the lord's wishes had to come first, but as long as he was waiting for the next orders he allowed himself a few recent memories of the washerwoman's full breasts he had come to like. The woman and the teats alike, that was.

 

Suddenly, a chair was knocked over in the dining room. The door was heavy enough, but the sound of wood hitting the floor was distinct enough.

At once, Damon stood at the ready, expecting to be called in.

What followed, however, was silence. A long silence.

Damon became nervous. Of course, he was absolutely forbidden to intrude upon his master without having been called, but he hoped that everything was all right.

He looked to the two sentries who had been posted on either side of the dining room, but further down the corridor, just out of earshot. Lord Tywin was careful about keeping his privacy. Still, the two would be there to come to his aid in a second, if necessary.

 

From out of nowhere, there was a female mewl inside the dining room. It was muffled because of the heavy door, but still discernible.

Were Lady Sansa and Lord Tywin having an argument, and the Hand was holding her in a way that was causing her pain? A point Damon had no influence in, indeed, but he had heard rumours of what the king had done to her, and personally, he thought she should be handled civilly. After all, she was just a stupid, weak woman, who had gotten into a maelstrom she hadn't been prepared for.

 

Another mewl, this time a bit more intense.

Puzzlement seized the servant.

That sound! It was more as if... but no, the Hand and his young – allegedly still maiden – daughter-in-law surely couldn't...?

The female voice was there again, and this time, it was a fully-fledged moan.

 

Damon was having a difficult time now to school his features and not to gape like a carp on land.

This was impossible! As far as he knew, Lord Tywin had only ever had a few harlots after his wife's untimely demise, never another woman, least of all a noblewoman.

 

Lady Sansa's moans were becoming more throaty and regular now. Whatever was going on inside the dinner room seemed to be... very enjoyable for her. And impressive. Well, the lord WAS impressive. Anyway, she didn't sound like a whore who was putting on a mummer's show for the sake of coin.

“Someone strike me! Hard!” Damon thought in utter bewilderment.

 

The next unsettling point was the timespan. Around a whore, Lord Tywin was usually done quite quickly. More often than not, ten to fifteen minutes were enough, and the meetings took rarely longer than twenty minutes in total.

The... interactions with Lady Sansa took longer.

At some point, after quite a period of time, one could hear a wail of relief. Next, there were some minutes of silence and Damon thought that it was finally over.

 

Far from it.

Suddenly, it started all over again – only this time, there was a female whine... that was accompanied by a dark moan.

Damon's eyes bulged.

What on earth!?

Lord Tywin had never, ever made any sounds when he had been together with a harlot!

 

This was different.

The next minutes with more lustful moans proved it.

Damon's ears were turning warm and red, and he was really aching for Masha now.

Various questions formed in the servant's head: “How, by the Seven, can a man his age be so... vivacious and lasting? How can a supposed maid be so avid? I've had two maids over the years, and neither was having such an easy time, though I tried to do my best. And the weirdest thing – when did Lord Tywin learn what unrestrained exaltation is?”

 

Whatever the answers – the Hand and Lady Sansa were having a markedly good time. When Lady Sansa reached her second peak, and Lord Tywin shortly afterwards... Damon was damned relieved as well, because he was pretty sure he couldn't have taken much more acoustic sprinkling.

The whole thing was becoming more and more mysterious. Obviously, the two had not cared one whit whether somebody overheard their... mating. And there was another thing: Lord Tywin had always had the harlots leave as soon as his physical hunger had been quenched. Now, however, the door to the dining room remained closed for quite a while.

 

Only after much waiting on the servant's side did the Hand emerge. He was dressed, though his style wasn't as impeccable as usually.

The Lion walked to the sentries and said to each one: “Your shift will only end when I tell you. If you utter as much as a single word until then you'll never be able to say another word again.”

Then, he returned to the door. With a click of the lord's fingers Damon was at his side.

 

“You've got to do something now. Three things, actually. In the precise order that I'm giving you. First, you get me my writing equipment from my solar. Take the portable desk. Second, have a bath drawn and brought here to the dining room. You will be the only one who enters the room, and don't you dare think that carrying a few pails of water is below you. You will be swifter and stealthier than the gossip in the keep. Especially than the gossip that reaches my daughter's ear.”

 

Damon swallowed hard.

“And what's the third task, Lord Hand?” he dared to venture.

Lord Tywin was silent for a second. His aura was ominous.

At length, he spoke: “You'll have a septon wait for me and my fiancée in the sept.”

 

Damon goggled at Lord Lannister, he couldn't help it.

The Lion was already on his way back to the dining room when he suddenly pivoted around again and added: “And don't tell the septon what he's waiting for.”

 

Then, the door closed again, and while Damon was darting off to carry out his orders he could only think of the political earthquake that would shake the kingdom in the morning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you soooo much for all the support, the kusdos, the comments! This story has been a wonderful experience, and your feedback has been awesome. I know that the ending is somewhat open. If anyone feels inspired to play with it in any form... feel free to do so! :-)
> 
> EDIT: A few people have asked me about some kind of epilogue. I promise I'll try to think about a tiny little something, but I can't promise. Please give me some time. ;-)
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction. I do not profit from the stories, nor would I ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author, in this case Grrm.


	13. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been asked for an epilogue. Erm. Well. My brain has kind of run rampant. Don't know, if it still fits in, because it wasn't planned beforehand. Some foul language, but no explicit details. Those will be the task for your brains. *grin* ;-)

When Prince Tommen awoke, Ser Pounce, Lady Whiskers and Boots were still at his side, which was no wonder, because a warm bed on a winter day was a very good place. The cats were already more awake than him and pricking up their furred black ears.

 

There was seemingly a major pandemonium going on outside in the corridor and in the adjoining room. His mother seemed to be in hysterics.

 

CRASH!

Glass was crashing against a wall.

CRASH!

That sounded like a plate.

 

“Uh-oh, something bad must have happened,” Tommen whispered at Lady Whiskers, who looked at him haughtily as if she wanted to say: “Since when is something bad anything new?”

 

Suddenly, the heavy door to his room flew open so wildly that it banged against the wall.

The prince flinched and the cats fled their warm shelter, hissing and spitting. However, their sounds were nothing in comparison to his frothing mother in the door frame.

 

“YOU! Lazy boy! Why are you still in bed? Get dressed! AT ONCE!”

 

A second later, she was gone again and raging on in the corridor: “Lancel, this is the epitome of insolence! How dare he!? How DARE he!?”

There was Lancel's calming voice, but Tommen's mother couldn't be pacified, and she went on crying blue murder.

 

Meanwhile, two panicky chambermaids scuttled into Tommen's room and nearly tripped over themselves and each other in their haste to make the prince presentable.

“What has happened?” Tommen asked them.

However, the maids were neither in the position nor in the mood to spill the beans and one woman sputtered: “Your Lady Mother is very agitated. Please lift your hands so we can help you put on your tunic, my prince.”

 

The overall tenseness was contagious, and Tommen was becoming really curious now.

Suddenly, he spotted through his momentarily open door the shape of a figure in the corridor he knew.

 

“Ser Osmund! Ser Osmund!” he called.

The knight from the member of the King's Guard turned and faced him with little interest.

“Yes, Prince Tommen?”

“What's going on? Why is everyone so excited?”

“Looks as if you've gotten a grandmother overnight,” was the oracular answer.

“What!? Wait! What do you mean?”

The knight sighed, clearly unnerved by the boy's interest.

 

“You grandfather, Lord Tywin, and your aunt, Lady Sansa, have married – and nobody knew about it beforehand. And now, I'd like to attend to your distressed Lady Mother, if you don't mind.”

 

Gaping, Tommen watched Ser Osmund disappear.

He had misheard, hadn't he?

Gentle Lady Sansa and his creepy grandfather, of all people!?

There was no way he could picture the two together. Well, at least in that respect he didn't seem to be alone.

 

Fortunately, in this situation nobody paid him much attention. In the course of the morning, Tommen learned that there was a meeting between Lord Tywin, Lady Sansa, his mother, Joffrey, Margaery and Mace Tyrell. He heard afterwards that Joffrey had had a fit, very much like their mother earlier on.

 

People also repeated a decisive threat his grandfather had uttered: “I've sent some ravens with my orders. Harm a hair of my sideburns or a hair of my wife's head – and there won't be a single more gold dragon from Casterly Rock. And even with Lord Mace's support you'll be bankrupt after a sennight, and nobody will follow you any more. NOBODY. And within another week you'd likely be dead. A people doesn't bear a king who can't even pay for his servants and who may have made himself more than a few enemies by being cruel. Cause Casterly Rock to call in the debts, and the Iron Bank will do the same. And a month later they'll send you a Faceless Man, an assassin who can even find you at the Eyrie.”

 

Like always, his grandfather had been right. He had the long arm. That was one point Tommen had learned even at a young age. Why Joffrey had never understood this was beyond him – but much of what Joffrey did and said was beyond him.

Tommen did not like his grandfather; nobody did that... and yet, he respected the man for his intelligence and his natural authority. Joffrey lacked both things, something else Tommen had come to understand.

 

Later, that day, there was a little improvised feast, and Tommen was stuffed into his formal clothes, which meant that they were the least comfortable ones.

 

His mother's and brother's faces were still so sour that the prince was on his guard and kept his distance, especially when his mother was getting increasingly drunk.

Margaery, Lancel and Lord Mace Tyrell only looked a shade better. The queen tried at least to smile, but it didn't really work, because her pregnancy was causing her some problems.

Tommen didn't know exactly how he should behave himself, or what was expected of him. Politely, he congratulated his grandfather and Lady Sansa when he was shoved in front of them, and he was grateful that his fearsome grandfather was never interested in a conversation with him, so that he could retreat at once.

 

The Red Keep was aflutter with gossip of all kind, even more so, since Lady Sansa and Lord Tywin were often standing together and exchanging some words. Tommen found that the two looked more like a couple than his mother and his father ever had.

Many courtiers were pulling the marriage to pieces behind upheld hands, but the same people didn't make a peep in public. Tommen had always known this kind of falseness, but it never ceased to disturb him, even more so because he knew he was still too young to compete properly in the Game of Thrones.

 

After the comparatively modest banquet there was some background music, but no dancing. Well, this wasn't a normal wedding feast.

 

Tommen came across his new... grandmother a second time when she was on her way to an open window to get some fresh air. She looked a bit tired, but she was wearing a splendid new golden dress, and only the seven heavens knew what Lord Tywin had done to dig it up for her so quickly. The same was true for the golden and crimson garnet necklace and earrings.

 

Insecure, the prince spoke up to the young woman and asked her how he should address her in the future.

She smiled and answered: “Just call me Sansa. Everything else would be ridiculous.”

Curiosity got the better of him then, and he asked: “Why did you marry my grandfather?”

Sansa blushed and smiled, and she looked strangely bashful.

“It's complicated. Perhaps one could say that I need his... strength – and he needs me as a corrective. But don't tell him about what I've said. He'd only say he wouldn't be alive any more, if he'd had a corrective over the last two decades.”

 

Sansa winked at him, and Tommen couldn't believe it. He had never seen such a gesture coming from her before, and he had never seen her so carefree. Or perhaps she had been happy back in Winterfell, but he didn't remember it well.

With another smile, Sansa took her leave and walked over to the window.

 

Somewhere further behind, Tommen heard Maester Pycelle and Joffrey exchange some comments about the new couple.

“She's young, Your Grace, and so is her appetite. Let's hope she won't be too demanding for his ageing heart.”

“He can die from a heart attack right on top of her in the wedding night, for all I care,” Joffrey seethed, and it was shocking for Tommen to hear that his brother should say such a thing – and even to someone, who wasn't a member of the family.

“With regard to the wedding night we must assume that your thoughts are a bit too late, Your Grace. There have been ample signs that the marriage has already been consummated.”

“Say another word and I'll be sick on your robe, quack! I don't want to think of the old buck and the filthy wolf bitch in that way. May their first spawn be like my late uncle and tear the slut apart like the Imp did my real grandmother.”

 

Now, it was Tommen, who nearly had to retch, but it was because of his brother's vulgarity, and he heard Joffrey prattle on about how Sansa had allegedly ground her fangs into the Old Lion for her own greedy purposes.

 

Just at that moment, the prince saw his grandfather walk over to his bride. They seemed to exchange a sentence or two... and suddenly, the most curious thing happened: the corners of Lord Tywin's mouth moved upwards. The Old Lion was smiling.

It was a tiny smile, but undeniably there. Tommen had never seen such before.

Sansa's eyes started to sparkle, and at that moment, it became clear for the prince that – in contrast to what the others were saying – this marriage was more than a merely political alliance.

 

That discovery caused Tommen to grin as well.

“Sansa is really grandfather's corrective. And she's right: he must never know.”


End file.
